<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Yarrow, Lilac, and Foxglove by ahurston</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24920524">Yarrow, Lilac, and Foxglove</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahurston/pseuds/ahurston'>ahurston</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Cas and Dean's Adventures in Gardening [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Comeplay, Domesticity in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff but give it feelings, Gardening, M/M, Magical Realism, Post-Season 15, Rimming, this is an angst-free zone</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:02:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,364</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24920524</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahurston/pseuds/ahurston</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dean. I'm considering a life of crime," Cas says in a near-whisper, dropping into a chair at the kitchen table. </p><p>"Uh, come again?" Dean says, only just avoiding spitting out his coffee. "And hate to break it to you, but we've both already got warrants out for multiple felonies, so..."</p><p>"I want to steal our neighbor's raspberries," Cas says with as much gravitas as if he's planning to rob the Bellagio.</p><p>-----<br/>Dean, Cas, and the magical garden down the road. </p><p>Part II of Cas and Dean's Adventures in Gardening, but can be read as a stand-alone.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Cas and Dean's Adventures in Gardening [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1803379</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>90</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>686</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_is_not_nothing/gifts">this_is_not_nothing</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you so much, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/docolive/">DocOlive</a>, for the plot brain-storming and the gorgeous cover art! ILU.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>"Dean. I'm considering a life of crime," Cas says in a near-whisper, dropping into a chair at the kitchen table. </p><p>"Uh, come again?" Dean says, only just avoiding spitting out his coffee. "And hate to break it to you, but we've both already got warrants out for multiple felonies, so..."</p><p>"I want to steal our neighbor's raspberries," Cas says with as much gravitas as if he's planning to rob the Bellagio. "And sweet peas. Possibly the carrots as well, though I can't be sure that's necessary yet."</p><p>"Okay?" Dean says, completely confused. "Wait, I didn't think we had any neighbors. This place is in the middle of goddamn nowhere."</p><p>"Three quarters of a mile up the road, there is a small farmstead. I jog past it sometimes."</p><p>Dean graciously relinquishes the opportunity to mock intentional exercise in favor of a follow-up question. </p><p>"Can I ask why? I mean, I'll help with the larceny obviously, but..."</p><p>"It's negligence, is what it is. The pea pods are swollen to the point of woodiness -" Dean bites back a laugh. Seriously, swollen and woody? "The raspberries are overripe, and who knows the subsurface condition of the carrots if the presence of various noxious weeds throughout the garden is any indication. Something must be done."</p><p>“What did you have in mind?” Dean says, sipping his coffee. </p><p>“A heist,” Cas answers with a decisive nod. </p><p>“Mmhmm. A heist.”</p><p>“A caper, if you will.” Cas glances shiftily from side to side, as though to check there are no wayward children around to corrupt with their conspiring. “To liberate the languishing produce.”</p><p>“Of course,” Dean says. Because honestly, he’s done a lot weirder things for people he cares a lot less about. </p><p>“It’s immoral, the actions of this quote-unquote gardener,” Cas continues, with the embellishment of air quotes. “It violates the sacred pact between a gardener and their crop.”</p><p>“The sacred pact?” Dean asks, spearing a chunk of perfectly cooked Eggs Benedict into his mouth, not laughing, definitely not smiling around his fork and loving Cas for all that he is.</p><p>“To honor the fruits of each plant’s labor,” Cas says seriously. “To care for each and every plant and shelter it from harm. To be its guardian.” </p><p>Suddenly, it doesn’t seem so funny. </p><p>“This really bothers you, doesn’t it?” Dean asks. </p><p>Cas huffs. “Yes. I am fully cognizant of the fact that our access to Charlie's perpetually limitless credit cards means we could buy whatever I can't grow myself. But -"</p><p>"It bothers you though. So it bothers me too."</p><p>Cas looks a little floored. His expression softens, shifting from agitated to fond, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes replacing the deep vee between his brows. </p><p>Dean shrugs. "What? Like you wouldn't commit a bigger crime for me, any day of the week. You helped me and Sam <em> kidnap the president</em>."</p><p>"He was possessed by Satan at the time," Cas scoffs. "But I suppose it's possible that the admittedly broken U.S. justice system wouldn't have taken that into account."</p><p>Dean laughs, shaking his head. He finishes up his coffee and squeezes Cas' shoulder as he heads to the sink with his dishes. Dried egg yolk is a bitch to clean if it's left to sit. </p><p>Cas stands too, taking his place next to Dean, towel in hand. Dean hands clean dishes to him one by one, Cas putting them away in their correct places. Not like Sam, putting all the spoons facing the wrong direction or worse, Jack, putting the plastic salad spinner in the oven and giving Dean a near-heart attack the next time he goes to pre-heat it.</p><p>"So. What weapons do you think we'll be needing for our mission tonight?" Dean asks, teasing. Cas waits a beat longer to answer than Dean is totally comfortable with. </p><p>“Uh, that was a joke, Cas,” Dean says, nudging him with his hip. </p><p>“Oh. Right. Based on the condition of the dust atop the gravel driveway, I am confident that the homeowner has been absent for at least three weeks. So I don’t think there is any significant risk for a violent human encounter.”</p><p>“Well, that’s good. I’ll leave the pistols and the flamethrower at home then,” Dean says, turning off the water and leaning back against the counter to watch Cas carefully line up the last of the mugs in the cupboard. </p><p>“However,” Cas adds, “Those fireproof gloves you keep in the trunk for burning bones might come in handy. The raspberry thicket is quite overgrown, after all. Some of the fruit may be hard to reach. Things could get...prickly.”</p><p>“Thanks for the heads up. I’ll wear my carhartts. Anything else I should be prepared for?” </p><p>“The sweet peas and radishes shouldn’t present any risk of injury. We’ll just need a few buckets to store what we harvest.”</p><p>“Gotcha covered. What time are we leaving?”</p><p>“Sunset is at 8:48 PM tonight, dusk at 9:20. I’d say 11:30, to be safe. That’s thirty minutes after the Wednesday night closing time for the only bar within a hundred miles, further reducing the risk of passersby.”</p><p>“Shit, this is a caper, isn’t it?” Dean says, grinning. “Do I get a codename? It’s ‘Clooney,’ for obvious reasons.”</p><p>Cas dries his hands carefully and then circles around in front of him, hands going easily to his hips. </p><p>“Fuck, I’m gonna make such a good pie out of those berries,” Dean says dreamily as Cas kisses up the side of his neck, hands slipping just under the back of his shirt. </p><p>***</p><p>Later, Cas is antsy during movie night with Jack and Sam. Tonight’s selection is Avatar. Jack is working his way through the top-grossing movies of the last twenty years as a sort of pop culture boot camp, and it’s been a mixed bag. Lord of the Rings was awesome, of course, and Dean definitely didn’t cry a little bit in Frozen. </p><p>Sue him, sibling dynamics are a bit of an emotional trigger. Whatever. </p><p>“You wanna get out of here?” Dean whispers in Cas’ ear as he fidgets during a hot blue guy’s monologue about the importance of environmental conservation. Dean’s not really paying attention either. </p><p>They make their excuses to Sam and Jack, earning a highly sarcastic eye roll from Sam. Dean’s fingers are laced with Cas’ as they make their way down the bunker’s long hallway to Dean’s room. Or, as it’s been for the last couple months, <em> their </em> room. </p><p>Cas kisses him into the mattress until Dean is pulling at his clothes in an entirely ineffectual way. Cas takes mercy on him, stripping first Dean and then himself before wrapping a lubed-up palm around Dean’s shaft, thumbing at the head on every twisting upstroke as Dean clings and gasps and doesn’t contribute at all, too overwhelmed in the best possible way. </p><p>He’s nearly there, so close, then Cas’ hand is gone and Dean groans something he’d be embarrassed about if he wasn’t completely, totally distracted by how good Cas looks and how <em> fucking </em> good he is at fucking him. Cas laughs softly, and it’s all kindness. Dean watches him slick himself up, using his free hand to maneuver the backs of Dean’s thighs up toward his chest and sliding his cock between them. </p><p>“In me, in me,” Dean chants, but Cas just shushes him instead and uses both hands to push Dean’s knees closer together, making a tighter space for himself. </p><p>“Touch yourself, Dean. Show me.”</p><p>Dean obeys - it’s hardly a chore.</p><p>***</p><p>“Dean, wake up.”</p><p>It takes some doing, but Dean eventually opens one eye to squint at Cas in the near-total dark. Cas has his arm around him, fingers tracing circles on the bare skin of his back. </p><p>“It’s time to go commit acts of horticultural vigilante justice.”</p><p>Dean is abruptly back to full consciousness at that call to arms. “Let’s do it.”</p><p>***</p><p>Cas parks the car a quarter mile past their target, going so far as to do a perfect, Driver’s Ed-quality three point turn in order to have the car facing the opposite direction from where they came. </p><p>“We don’t want to alert local law enforcement to our presence,” Cas says, tapping the side of his nose. </p><p>Dean doesn't point out that the area's only police presence consists solely of one Carl Baxter, the recently divorced county sheriff. Dean lets Carl beat him in pool at the Lebanon Tavern three nights a week out of sheer pity, so something tells Dean that he's not patrolling this stretch of Rural Route 11 tonight. </p><p>Buckets in hand, they make their way past the squeaking, rusted gate and weave through knee-high grass and around overgrown flower beds. The night is cool, the sky clear. Dean looks up for a second at the star-filled sky. </p><p>"Dean, over here," Cas whispers hoarsely from around the side of the house. </p><p>When Dean rounds the corner, Cas is kneeling in the dirt. He smiles into the beam of Dean's flashlight, holding up a glossy, red strawberry.</p><p>"Strawberries - heaps of them," Cas says, popping the berry into his mouth and humming.</p><p>Cas takes his hand and tugs him down, aiming his flashlight at the bushes which are full-to-bursting with perfectly ripe berries. </p><p>"We're going to require additional buckets," Cas says, reverence threaded through his voice. </p><p>***</p><p>Four hours later, the sky is just starting to lighten as Dean carefully shuts the trunk of the Impala. He'd had to get creative when he ran back to the bunker for more storage containers, but now there are ice cream buckets full of radishes, at least eight kinds of lettuce in fabric grocery bags, a laundry basket stuffed to the brim with asparagus and carrots, and a dozen shoeboxes packed shallowly with the most precious cargo of all: fragile raspberries and strawberries twice as sweet as anything they can get at the Thriftway in Mankato.</p><p>When he slides in behind the wheel, Cas is on his phone, scrolling.</p><p>“One more stop before we go home, Dean.”</p><p>Cas doesn’t say where they’re headed, just tells Dean where to turn until they’re pulling in front of a plain brick building a couple of towns over. The sign reads, “United Food Pantry, All Are Welcome.”</p><p>“I’ll just be a minute,” Cas says, leaning over and kissing him on the temple as Dean yawns and nods. </p><p>But when Dean hears the trunk open, he sighs and drags himself out onto the sidewalk. </p><p>“You need any help?” Dean asks, leaning heavily against the car. </p><p>“Thank you, yes,” Cas says, balancing the laundry basket against his hip. “We just need to place all of these containers under the overhang. The breakfast shift will be arriving within the hour and can bring them inside.”</p><p>“Uh...when you say ‘all,’ you mean...all?” Dean says, eyeing the shoeboxes of berries with no small amount of grief. </p><p>“Well, I suppose a box or two wouldn’t be missed.”</p><p>Everything unloaded, they pull back onto the county highway just as the sun peeks out over the horizon. </p><p>***</p><p>Dean sleeps until noon and wakes to the smell of bacon. It almost, but not quite, makes up for the fact that the spot beside him in bed is cold and Cas-less.</p><p>He shuffles into the kitchen, and is greeted by a steaming plate of breakfast on the counter. Eggs and bacon, and familiar-looking berries from the night before. He hears Sam’s voice from the war room. </p><p>“Are you thinking brownies? There’s a lot of Scottish lore about them,” Sam is saying as Dean rounds the corner, plate in hand. “Maybe the hogboon, given the lack of livestock.”</p><p>“I’m not sure,” Cas says, a thick tome spread out in front of him. “The fae of the British Isles are traditionally more transactional than this.”</p><p>“Gnomes, then?” Sam adds.</p><p>“Uh, what’s going on?” Dean asks, after swallowing a mouthful of perfect bacon. The day he taught Cas that the oven is far superior to the stovetop for bacon should go down in history. He’s benefited from it ever since. </p><p>“We’re doing research!” Jack interjects, head popping up from behind his laptop. “I’m helping.”</p><p>“We’re trying to figure out what’s up with that magic garden you and Cas found,” Sam clarifies. </p><p>“Huh? What’s he talking about, Cas?” Dean says, leaning against the side of the table next to Cas and knocking a knee into his. </p><p>“We think there might be supernatural forces afoot in the garden,” Cas answers, not looking at all worried about this. “Possibly.”</p><p>“Pretty sure gardens don’t spontaneously regenerate within a four hour period, Cas,” Sam interjects. </p><p>Dean sets his plate on the table with a clatter. “Regenerate? What the fuck?” </p><p>Cas sighs, leaning forward in his chair. “I jogged my typical circuit this morning, which as you’re aware, takes me past the garden, and I noticed something odd. It appears that it is in need of another nocturnal harvest already.”</p><p>“And that’s not...normal,” Dean says, looking down mournfully on the fruit he was really fucking looking forward to eating. </p><p>“I should say not,” Cas says with a scoff. “Dean, the <em> carrots </em> were back. We pulled them from the earth not eight hours ago. They typically require between sixty and eighty days from germination to harvest, not to mention, given the time of year and the force of the sun’s rays -”</p><p>“What Cas is trying to say,” Sam cuts in, “Is that there’s something going on with that garden. <em> Our </em>kind of thing.”</p><p>“Alright, well, then we’ve gotta burn it down, right? Salt the earth or something?” Dean says, stomach sinking. Or maybe that’s just hunger. He eyes his plate - the eggs are probably fine, right? If they weren’t touching the fucking <em> possessed </em>strawberries?</p><p>"Dean, I think it's friendly," Cas says, setting a gentle hand on his knee. </p><p>"Fuck that, I've had my share of spirits. I just wanted to make a damn pie, but these berries,” he stabs one with his fork and waves it in the air for emphasis, “Will probably hex me with gonorrhea or like, a <em> tail.</em>"</p><p>“Probably not a tail,” Jack says, jumping in. “Unless it’s a glaistig. I'm reading that they can get a bit spiteful.”</p><p>Dean picks up his plate and heads to the kitchen to make some goddamn oatmeal. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Cas is yawning during chess with Sam, nodding off during New Girl reruns with Jack, and he’s bonelessly slumped against Dean’s shoulder as Dean is looking up recipes for various fruit desserts. He’s got a nice quantity of bookmarks now. </p><p>First on the agenda - a berry buckle. Or a clafoutis. A crisp, maybe? They’re going to need more fruit. And a tart pan, springform, and bundt. The Men of Letters kitchen is sorely lacking in bakeware. </p><p>Dean slings an arm around Cas’ waist as he hauls them both toward the bathroom, plopping Cas down onto the bench next to the sink. </p><p>It’s taken some getting used to, the whole part-human, part-angel thing. Cas is aging alongside him, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening and rogue silver hairs appearing at his temples. He sleeps now too, curling an arm around Dean’s middle every night and breathing against the back of his neck. Dean is so goddamn grateful for all of it. </p><p>Dean brushes his teeth as he watches Cas nod off in the mirror. </p><p>“Aren’t you always telling me about the importance of oral hygiene?” Dean says around a mouthful of toothpaste.</p><p>Cas squints at him. “I am very tired, Dean.”</p><p>“I thought we were going on another - what’d you call it? Nocturnal harvest? Full disclosure, dude, but that sounds weirdly porny. Like, monster porny. I don’t wanna call it that. Night gardening. How’s that instead?”</p><p>Cas nods, eyes sliding shut again as he tips his head back against the tile wall. </p><p>Dean spits into the sink. “So...is that still the plan? When are we heading out?”</p><p>Cas pulls himself to his feet, ambling over until he’s pressing his face between Dean’s shoulder blades, arms around his waist. </p><p>“Mm. I think -” <em> yawn </em> - “It might be advisable to wait until morning. I want to water the tomatoes, and doing so at night encourages the development of various harmful fungi.”</p><p>“So we’re watering the plants too now,” Dean says, rotating in Cas’ arms until they’re face to face.</p><p>“Possibly mulching the raised beds as well. It encourages a healthy soil ecosystem and reduces evaporation. Also -” <em> yawn </em>- “I can’t overstate the importance of preventing splashing on the lower leaves.”</p><p>“Cas, are you adopting this garden?”</p><p>Cas shrugs. “Someone has to. It’s quite exceptional, and if there are spirits involved, it will please them to have their work acknowledged. We all require appreciation, Dean.” </p><p>Dean leans forward to kiss him and slides his hands down to Cas’ ass. He’s suddenly less morally opposed to all the jogging Cas has been doing lately. Appreciation indeed. </p><p>He wants to pick Cas up, carry him across the room and do something extravagant like fuck him against the wall, but he’s forty-fucking-one years old and that’s just not in the cards. So he settles for tugging Cas closer and mouthing a line up his neck. Cas hums, hands stroking over his back. </p><p>“Bed, Dean. I’ll pleasure you orally, but you’re going to have to do all the work.”</p><p>Dean drops his forehead to Cas’ shoulder laughing. </p><p>“Is the romance dead, then?” </p><p>Cas yawns. “No. I’ll never be done romancing you. I’m just very tired. And our bed is very comfortable.”</p><p>Dean smiles. <em> Our bed. </em></p><p>***</p><p>It shouldn't be legal to be this tired before nine in the morning. But Cas had woken him up with a very motivating mouth on his dick two hours ago, and since then, Dean's already hauled several reels of soaker hoses and roughly a million bags of cedar mulch from hardware store to car to garden bed at Cas' ready instruction. He can feel the back of his neck starting to burn in the strong Kansas sunshine. </p><p>Meanwhile, Cas is setting up a complex irrigation network that weaves from plot to plot. He’s checking his phone a lot as he works, and Dean would bet the rims on his car that there’s a spreadsheet involved. </p><p>Dean sneaks up behind him to peer over his shoulder.</p><p>“What?" Cas says defensively, tucking a stray curl behind his ear and slipping his phone into his back pocket. “The water pressure from the well is weak, so I was concerned that the areas closer to the faucets would receive the lion’s share of the water, leaving the string beans parched, and that just won’t work. So what I did was -”</p><p>Dean is listening, he is. But he’s also following the fascinating journey of a bead of sweat that is traveling down Cas’ neck to the loose collar of his t-shirt.</p><p>"Mmhmm. Do you think you'll need any more hoses? Got anything else you need me to mulch?" he says, pressing against Cas in a way that can’t be misinterpreted as anything other than an invitation to fuck in the backseat of the Impala. </p><p>"No. We should be about done,” Cas says, tragically unaware. “Thank you for your help - I know this isn’t exactly how you probably planned to spend your morning."</p><p>"S’nothing. I'll just load up those buckets of blueberries you left by the front gate. When did you have time to pick them anyway?"</p><p>Cas tips his head to the side, questioning. "I didn't."</p><p>"Fuck, not this again."</p><p>Dean shows Cas to the neat row of buckets, filled to their brims with shiny berries. Cas pops a handful into his mouth.</p><p>"They're perfectly safe, Dean. More than that, actually - they have an exceptionally high amount of phytonutrients. I think...I think they're a gift."</p><p>“From <em> who</em>, though? Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to take candy from strangers? Or fruit from unknown supernatural entities?”</p><p>“Well, I think we can safely rule out a glaistig. Jack was right - they really are spiteful. Not exactly the gift-giving sort.”</p><p>Dean plops down in the grass with a grunt and leans back against the fence post. </p><p>"Hand 'em over." </p><p>*** </p><p>It goes on like that for weeks. The peas keep on producing well after the daily high tops 90 degrees - something Cas finds utterly shocking. He’s keeping a logbook of every unusual thing the garden does. Or more accurately, <em> three </em>logbooks. So far. </p><p>The thorns disappear from the black raspberries just before harvest, the tomatoes seemingly tie themselves to the stakes that Cas so carefully installed, and the lettuce never turns bitter. These are all apparently miraculous events. </p><p>For his part, Dean is more interested in the random gifts of fruit that happen every time Cas does something that makes the garden and its magical occupants happy. All Dean knows is that whenever they take a haul of produce to the food pantry or Cas sprays gross-smelling shit on the squash leaves, Dean gets to make dessert.</p><p>Even Sam eats pie for breakfast now. He says he’s just enthusiastic about the antioxidants, but Dean knows for a fact that his raspberry pie is so good, it’s brought at least one grown man to tears. That man was Dean, sure, but still. Damn good pie. </p><p>Meanwhile, the research dries up. Sam finds the owner’s obituary in a Jacksonville newspaper. Jack finds the county record of title transfer to the owner’s daughter a couple weeks later. But every day, the only tire tracks in the driveway are the Impala’s, and no one seems to know or care that they’re there. Except the garden itself. </p><p>A thunderstorm rolls in on a night in early July. The morning after, Dean notices a few shingles in the yard. While Cas picks pole beans and pulls weeds, Dean digs a ladder out of the shed and climbs up onto the roof. </p><p>It’s a total mess. There’s a sag in the middle of the porch overhang, and the shingles that aren’t missing altogether are curled up at the edges. </p><p>“Hey, Cas,” he calls out toward the backyard. “You got a tape measure?”</p><p>***</p><p>The garden really, <em> really </em> likes that Dean is fixing the roof. </p><p>“I don’t think you understand how anomalous strawberries in July are, Dean,” Cas says on their lunch break one day, adding a line about the occurrence to his logbook. </p><p>Dean just shrugs, and pops another berry in his mouth. Next on the menu: a galette. </p><p>***</p><p>“Maybe Renenutet?” Sam throws out, taking a swig of his beer. It’s research night, part 46: now complete with snacks.</p><p>“Why would the ancient Egyptian goddess of nourishment appear in rural Kansas?” Cas counters, taking another slice of upside-down sour cherry cake. “She hasn’t been active on this plane for two thousand years. Not to mention, the owner’s heritage was primarily Germanic, not Egyptian.”  </p><p>Sam pushes the hair away from his face. Dean would mock him for it or try to sheer it off in the middle of the night, but after meeting the man-bunned doppelganger of his brother last year, he’s fine with it as is. </p><p>“Yeah, I know. I’m really scraping the bottom of the barrel here, guys. We might just have to call this one a win and move on,” Sam says, leaning back in his chair.</p><p>“Dean, has the spirit, or entity to be more general, done you any harm?” Jack asks, looking up from his laptop.</p><p>“I stepped on a squash vine the other day and then got stung by a weirdly territorial honeybee. Does that count?”</p><p>“That was unusual, you’re right,” Cas interjects. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call it punishment, but I think it may have been a small act of negative reinforcement. You should step more carefully in the future.”</p><p>Dean rolls his eyes. “Thanks for the sympathy. It’s a good thing I’m not allergic or something.”</p><p>Cas’ eyes widen. “I wouldn’t have raised you from perdition and left an allergy to bees intact.”</p><p>“Sure. Cas, you’ve gotta stop talking about what you did to upgrade my, what was it, mortifying flesh? What, you make my dick bigger too?”</p><p>“There wasn’t a need, as you are well aware.”</p><p>Dean smirks. </p><p>“Guys. We’re right here,” Sam cuts in. </p><p>Dean swivels in his chair to look across the table. He’d forgotten they had company. “So yeah, Jack. To answer your question, no harm done other than the occasional sting from an evil bee.”</p><p>“Bees are never evil,” Cas says. “It was merely defending its source of pollen.”</p><p>“I get it, you’re on the bee’s side.”</p><p>“Generally, yes.”</p><p>“Hey Jack,” Sam says, clapping his hands together. “You want to go do something? Anything? Something not...here?”</p><p>“Well, I’m working my way through the bestsellers of the 21st century. I have some questions about the memoir structure of ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ as a matter of fact, and I’d love your thoughts.”</p><p>“Sure thing, buddy,” Sam says with an offensive amount of sincerity. “Let’s go for a drive.”</p><p>Sam throws Dean a look that clearly says ‘anything is better than here.’ Dean sticks out a leg to try to trip him as he heads for the garage. </p><p>***</p><p>Sex is better in the summer. The heat from working in the garden all day seeps into their skin and follows them home. They fuck each other into Dean’s mattress every other night, and Dean gets the best sleep of his life. </p><p>He can feel the callouses on Cas’ palms, the strength in his grip when he’s holding Dean down or holding him up.</p><p>One day, Sam and Jack take a case out in Omaha. Something about a mildly irritated ghost keeping a college professor up at night. It would’ve been entirely beneath their pay grade before everything settled down, but Sam’s been itching for some action and this is as close as it gets. </p><p>They take Cas’ Continental, Jack sliding in behind the steering wheel. Dean loads their bags into the trunk as Cas lectures Jack about the importance of checking the car's numerous blind spots before changing lines. After he and Cas watch them head off, Dean takes Cas’ hand. </p><p>The war room table, the gym floor, and the kitchen counters all get some action that weekend. Semi-angelic refractory periods are no joke. </p><p>“Dean, again - again,” Cas gasps, even as he’s still coming all over Dean’s fist on his cock, Dean buried inside him. </p><p>“Jesus Christ, Cas,” Dean gasps, letting go only to grip Cas’ hips and push back inside as Cas groans and arches his back. </p><p>He’s fucked Cas through three or four orgasms at this point. Whenever he thinks he can’t take it anymore, he gets a shivering line of grace up his spine, and he’s back. </p><p>“How...<em>fuck.</em>..many more...times?” Dean asks, breathless and maybe delirious but definitely not complaining. He slips his hands underneath Cas’ arms, hauling him upright, his chest to Cas’ back. Cas tips his head back onto Dean’s shoulder and Dean mouths at the sweet, sun-tanned skin on the side of his neck.</p><p>“I need another, Dean, just - <em> please</em>.”</p><p>Dean sits back on his heels, taking Cas with him. Before Dean can track what’s happening, Cas is pulling out, turning around, and then, face to face, he’s sliding Dean’s dick back where it belongs.</p><p>They kiss and it's all crazy and Dean feels like he’s going to pass out, but he doesn’t. Then Cas is shooting off again between them, sucking a mark into Dean’s neck and Dean finally, finally gets to come. It feels like it lasts forever.</p><p>It feels like maybe, this thing with Cas is something Dean gets to keep.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After the roof is fixed, Dean finds other things to do to keep his hands busy as the summer weeks pass. While Cas waters and prunes and weeds and harvests, Dean redoes the tuckpointing on the chimney, trims the trees back from the power lines, and replaces the caulk around all the windows and doors. </p><p>The garden pays him back tenfold as sweet corn and ghost peppers and figs fill the buckets Dean optimistically leaves empty by the front gate every morning. </p><p>"Dean," Cas says, turning a perfectly ripe fig over in his palm, studying it. "The garden doesn't even have a fig tree. They're not compatible with the region’s hardiness zone. Not to mention, central Kansas' humidity level should mean -"</p><p>Dean shrugs. "Uh huh, sure. Well, I'm making pizza tonight. Fig, prosciutto, and arugula. It's gonna be awesome."</p><p>"That does sound delicious,” Cas says with a resigned huff. “I think the garden favors you. That should surprise no one - you’ve mended more than one broken thing.”</p><p>“You mean -” Dean starts, and Cas shrugs. “Dude, no. You weren’t broken, Cas.”</p><p>“On more than one occasion, I most certainly was. Sam too, and Jack as well. You even brought back your car from near-total destruction. You mend things.”</p><p>Dean can practically feel the weight of the mallet in his hand as he’d pounded dents the size of dinner plates out of the Impala’s exterior. “Okay. Sure, maybe I fixed the car, but -”</p><p>“One can’t argue with Gaea, Dean.”</p><p>“So we landed on Gaea, then?”</p><p>“Definitely not. It’s just a hypothesis, one I’m hoping the garden will somehow confirm or deny.”</p><p>“How would it -”</p><p>Cas shushes him urgently and points at a nearby trellis. “The tomatoes, they’re ripening, right before our eyes."</p><p>“That can’t be right, I mean...” Dean squints at them, trying to remember if the brandywines looked that pink this morning. “Well, I’ll be damned.”</p><p>“Would you interpret the rapid maturation of tomato fruit as a confirmatory sign?” Cas asks, tracing a fingertip over one. </p><p>“I don’t know, man. But why do I feel like the plants just said, ‘aw, shucks’? It sorta looks like they're blushing.”</p><p>“I think you’re right. We’ve embarrassed them. So, we’re looking for an entity a little less lofty than the goddess of all earth. Gnomes, perhaps?”</p><p>Just then, a northerly wind picks up out of nowhere, pushing them toward the garden gate.</p><p>“Huh. It didn’t like that,” Dean calls out over the gale, bracing himself against a fence post until the wind dies down. “Must be something offensive about being called a gnome. Maybe no more guesses, for now?”</p><p>Cas nods, retrieving the basket of spilled cherry tomatoes and carefully refilling it. </p><p>Dean helps him load the day’s take into the trunk, relieved that unlike yesterday’s, it won’t require a repeat trip to the food pantry. </p><p>It’s as he’s tapping the steering wheel to the freight train rhythm of “Walk the Line,” Cas humming along beside him, that he remembers what they were talking about before. </p><p>“Oh, that thing you said, about how the garden goddess or whatever it is likes me best? You’re totally wrong. Remember the other day, when the tomato you picked doubled in size, <em> after </em>you picked it? Man, that was a good BLT.”</p><p>“I suppose it does no good to compare,” Cas admits, looking pleased. “We’re both in her favor.”</p><p>”So it’s a ‘she,’ then?”</p><p>“Nearly all of the supernatural beings and deities associated with the land’s fertility have historically been female in nature.”</p><p>“Oh. That makes sense then, why I’m her favorite. All the ladies love me.”</p><p>Cas smiles and rolls his eyes. He taps the stereo and “A Thing Called Love” starts playing. </p><p><em> Ever since time, nothing's ever been found that's stronger than love</em>, Johnny sings as they head on down the road. </p><p>*</p><p>Some teenager in Serbia is killing Dean at online chess when Cas bursts into the study, looking frantic. </p><p>“Dean, a hail storm is rolling in within the next hour.”</p><p>His rank is gonna take a hit from leaving the match early, but Dean’s closes out the tab and turns to face Cas. </p><p>“We need to get to the garden, now,” Cas says reaching down to tug Dean out of his chair. </p><p>Dean pictures the Impala, safe in the bunker’s garage, never to be hailed on again, and sighs. </p><p>“Sure, Cas. What can I do?”</p><p>“Can you gather any tarps we have? And stakes. As many as possible,” Cas says, pulling Dean toward the garage.</p><p>“Okay, uh, how -”</p><p>“I’ll explain on the way.”</p><p>Supplies hastily shoved into the trunk, they head out. Cas is alert, body tense in the passenger seat as he talks faster than Dean can parse about the physics involved in forming makeshift hail shelters out of scavenged supplies. There are formulas and calculations that definitely weren’t covered in his GED study guide’s math section. Dean does a lot of serious nodding along, and tries not to think about what the Impala’s roof is going to look like when the storm is over. </p><p>In the garden, Cas calls out instructions across the yard with military-style authority. He’s gorgeous like this, and Dean has no trouble imagining him leading a company of angels in battle. </p><p>They work together beautifully, like they always have. Stakes are pushed as far as possible into the dirt, tarps draped over the rectangles they create, and stones used to anchor everything in place. Cas is muttering in Enochian the entire time. To Dean’s untrained ear, it sounds vaguely like an obscenity-laden prayer.</p><p>“I don’t know how we’re going to protect the beans, Dean - the trellises are ten feet high! How have your kind coped with the recent extreme fluctuations in regional weather patterns? Clearly, your people should have listened to Al Gore when they had a chance, then maybe we wouldn’t be in this disastrous situation.”</p><p>“Uh, I’m sorry?” Dean replies, and it feels woefully inadequate. He thinks of the Impala’s gas mileage, of the ground beef thawing in the fridge back at the bunker and feels at least 50% responsible for the sum total of global climate change. </p><p>“It’s not your fault, it’s not,” Cas says, deflating. “I know that. Multinational corporations bear the lion’s share of the blame. Anyway, the beans will be shredded by morning. I’m just...it’s fine. Let’s go home.”</p><p>“Wait a second,” Dean says, before taking off at a run toward the shed with Cas following close behind. They heave open the rusty doors together. </p><p>Dean points out a stack of plywood sheeting in the corner. “Couldn’t we brace these panels against the trellises, like a lean-to, and -”</p><p>Cas takes his face in his hands, eyes a little wild, and kisses him firmly. “You’re a genius.”</p><p>Twenty minutes later, the jury-rigged plywood braces are all in place. </p><p>“That’s all we can do,” Cas says. “We’ve done our best.”</p><p>“How long until the storm?” Dean asks, peering at the yellowed sky, a dark wall of clouds approaching from the west. </p><p>“Four minutes,” Cas answers, his angelic doppler radar apparently intact. </p><p>Not enough time to make it back to the safety of the bunker’s garage, and Dean doesn’t trust Smith County Public Works’ maintenance of the gravel road between here and home in a storm anyway. He’s too old to pull his car out of a ditch, and Baby deserves better. </p><p>By unspoken agreement, they let themselves into the house, removing their shoes at the door in a probably-unnecessary show of respect that still feels warranted. Besides going up to the attic to repair the rafters when he was working on the roof, Dean hasn’t been in here much. They make their way to the living room at the back, and sit side by side on the olive green, 1970’s sofa facing the window. As they watch lightning streak across the sky and listen to the pitter patter of hailstones hitting the patio outside, Dean tries to decide if some dry ice and Sam’s hair dryer will be enough to get the dents out of the Impala’s roof tomorrow.</p><p>After a particularly close-sounding boom of thunder, the lights flicker before going out entirely. </p><p>“Oh, great,” Dean groans, sinking back into the couch cushions. </p><p>“We’re perfectly safe here,” Cas says, sliding an arm around his shoulders. “Whatever entity watches over this property, we’re welcome to shelter here for the night.”</p><p>Dean side-eyes him. “Are you putting the moves on me, man?”</p><p>“Is it working?” Cas asks, voice deep. </p><p>“Uh...yeah? But the goddess won’t mind if we fuck on the shag carpeting?”</p><p>Cas laughs, fingers tracing the inseam of Dean’s jeans. “Not at all. I think it would please her, actually.”</p><p>“Kinky.”</p><p>“The old gods typically were,” Cas says between kisses up the side of his neck. </p><p>Letting his head drop onto the back of the couch, Dean closes his eyes as Cas slowly works the buttons of his shirt open. Lightning flashes behind his eyelids, and he feels Cas settle on the floor between his knees. Cas’ hands are at his belt, sliding it through the loops slow enough that Dean’s skin comes alive with it. He lifts his hips without being asked, for Cas to shimmy his jeans down his legs and off. </p><p>Cas kneads at his thighs then, and Dean breathes through it. When he finally looks down, he can only see the barest outline of Cas’ face in the dark, his hands on Dean’s skin in the near-total dark of the room. Leaning forward, Cas replaces his hands with his lips, starting a path up from his knees to the edge of his boxer briefs, fingertips dipping beneath the hem of each leg.</p><p>The only sound is the rain outside, along with the occasional crash of thunder. Dean hums, both totally relaxed and so goddamn turned on when Cas works a hand inside his briefs to help his cock through the slit. The feeling of Cas’ hot breath on his dick makes him shiver, and Cas doesn’t keep him waiting. He’s being taken in whole, and his hands find Cas’ hair and tug as Cas’ chin meets his balls. Cas just stays there, longer than would be comfortable or even possible for someone who has a physiological need for breathing. </p><p>Cas' hands join Dean's on top of his head, lacing his fingers with Dean's and shifting their joined hands down until Dean thoroughly gets the message. Cas doesn't move an inch until Dean makes him. Dean alternates rocking up into his mouth with dragging Cas head up and down on his dick, Cas’ hands gripping just above his knees. Each time he slides his cock back home in Cas' throat, he earns a cut-off moan from Cas that he can feel in his bones. </p><p>He doesn’t notice that he’s slipping low in his seat until Cas is shoving at the backs of his thighs, pushing his knees toward his face. Dean lets it happen, boneless, and pretty damn sure he’ll like wherever this is heading. </p><p>Cas mouths at the base of his dick, drags his tongue over his balls and lower until Dean is arching off the couch. It goes against every bit of sexual etiquette he’s ever learned when he gets his hands under himself so he can grind against Cas’ mouth on his hole, but whatever. Cas is making contented little sounds against his skin as his tongue works over his rim, so it’s probably okay. </p><p>Dean gets one hand back on his cock, jerking it as slow as he can stand to make this whole desperate thing last a little longer. But Cas fucks that plan right to hell when he gets his hands under Dean’s hips and none-too-gently hauls him down onto the floor. Cas puts a hand in the center of Dean’s chest, pushing him back until Dean’s sprawled out on the carpet. Cas straddles his chest then, and Dean automatically opens his mouth for Cas to feed his dick into. </p><p>Cas knows the limits of his gag reflex perfectly by now, and he knows Dean likes a challenge. So he fucks in and out of his mouth right on the perfect edge of too much, and Dean takes it and takes it and loves it so much. His eyes are watering and spit trails out of the side of his mouth as he picks up the speed of his hand on his dick. </p><p>“Dean, you - <em> shit </em>,” Cas gasps, as Dean gives his best attempt at swallowing around his dick and nearly choking with the effort. Cas pets at his face, cards a hand through his sweaty hair and then sits back, drawing his dick out of Dean’s well-fucked mouth. </p><p>The hand still in his hair goes taut, angling Dean’s head back as he uses his other hand to strip his cock until he’s coming, warm trails across Dean’s cheeks and slack mouth. Dean’s breathless, and Cas isn’t done. Cas leans forward, licking the come from his skin and slipping it into Dean’s own mouth, making him groan with the perfect filthiness of it. </p><p>“I’m gonna, I'm gonna -” Dean groans as Cas follows a stripe of come with his tongue from Dean’s ear to just beneath his eye. </p><p>Dean comes against Cas’ ass as Cas sucks on his tongue, stealing the breath from his lungs. </p><p>A span of minutes is lost after that until Dean can rouse himself enough to reach around blindly for wherever his phone ended up. Cas reaches under the couch and hands it over to him.</p><p>“Thanks, man,” Dean says, his voice sounding like he just finished gargling gravel. Peering at the screen, he sees it’s clocking in at an impressive 12% battery power, so Dean hauls himself to his feet and uses the last of its light to navigate himself to the kitchen and dig around in the cabinets until he finds a flashlight and two glasses he fills with tap water. </p><p>When he returns to the den, he sees Cas has constructed a makeshift bed out of couch cushions and an assortment of quilts and crocheted blankets, his black hair sticking out from beneath something embroidered with roses. Dean drains his glass, then clicks off the flashlight before pulling back the edge of the quilt and sliding in beside an already-sleeping Cas. </p><p>***</p><p>Sunlight is streaming through the den’s picture window as Dean wakes up in increments. He slept far better than vinyl cushions and scratchy yarn blankets should have made possible. Probably has something to do with the company. </p><p>Cas’ fingers are drawing patterns across his chest, his breath warm on the back of Dean’s neck. Dean isn’t sure that he’s ever been happier than right now. That is, until the shitbag voice of insecurity from deep in his psyche makes itself known. </p><p>"Are you happy?” Dean asks before he can think better of it, staring up at the peeling popcorn ceiling. “Here, I mean. Uh...with me."</p><p>Cas fingers still, his palm resting over Dean’s too-quick heartbeat.</p><p>"Oh." Dean nods, swallows. It was only a matter of time, anyway. "Okay, yeah. I get it."</p><p>"<em>Dean. </em> I wonder if there will ever come a day you will fully believe me when I say there is nowhere else I'd rather be than with you."</p><p>Dean's heart restarts.</p><p>"There are a couple things I want, however. They're small, relatively speaking."</p><p>Dean rolls on his side to face him. "Well, we've got pretty unlimited funds these days, so...what do you have in mind? Unless, you mean - " Dean's brain starts running scenarios. "You wanna try a threesome? We can do that. Role-play?" Dean shudders, thinking of Casifer and Michael and Leviathan. "Actually, I take that one back. Bondage? Spanking?"</p><p>"I want a window," Cas says. “Exactly like this one.”</p><p>"Oh." Dean tries to get his brain to shift gears. "Sure. I mean, the bunker is kinda forty feet underground though. That's a lot of dirt to move." </p><p>"I also want to marry you. We can circle back to the bondage."</p><p>"...Oh." Suddenly, Dean's mouth is very, very dry and his hands are very, very sweaty. </p><p>"What do you think?"</p><p>"I...wait, about the bondage, or...the other thing."</p><p>"The other thing," Cas says, and the fucker is <em> smiling </em> like he's sure of the answer, like Dean's not slipping into shock right now. </p><p>He needs a weighted blanket and a fifth of whiskey and at least a baker's dozen of monsters to kill before he can deal with this, before he can -</p><p>"Yes," Dean hears himself say. Well, okay then.</p><p>***</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the morning, Dean braces himself when he heads outside to check on the car. Cas is beside him for moral support, his grip firm on Dean’s hand. </p><p>At first, Dean doesn’t trust what he’s seeing. He runs his hands over the frame, across the hood, and lets out a long breath. Not a speck of damage. No evidence whatsoever that baseball-sized hail landed all over this area, according to the local news. In contrast, the stop sign at the corner has fallen flat on its face, pockmarked with hail dents, and Dean can see at least five or six downed power lines before the road disappears over the next hill. </p><p>“Cas, how the hell -” he says, before realizing that Cas isn’t next to him. Instead, Cas is across the yard, the top of his head barely visible where he’s knelt down between the rows of tomatoes. </p><p>Dean makes his way over, weaving between the tarps and stakes they’d set up the night before. </p><p>“It’s all still here,” Cas says reverently, holding out a flawless Amana Orange to Dean. It’s heavy in Dean’s palm, not a bruise or a scrape to be found. “Amazing. I think she’s getting stronger. Her sphere of influence is expanding.”</p><p>“Uh, and we’re sure that’s...good? We both have a bit of a history with gods that get a little high on their own supply.”</p><p>“Dean, she expended her energy to protect the Impala.”</p><p>That brings Dean up short. “Fair point. If that’s not a force for good, I don’t know what is.”</p><p>Cas doesn’t say much after that, as he and Dean quietly work together to fold up the tarps and load the stakes into the trunk of the car. Whenever Dean sneaks a glance at him, Cas is smiling, soft and warm. Before they leave, he presses Dean back against the passenger side door and kisses him until Dean feels all lit up inside. </p><p>***</p><p>The reactions back at the bunker to their engagement are about what Dean expects. </p><p>“Finally,” Sam says. He hugs them both, blinks back tears, and it’s embarrassing for everyone involved. Dean loves it, but that’s a secret he’ll take to the grave. </p><p>For the first time in a while, he hopes he doesn’t end up there for a long, long time. </p><p>“Ah, so you’re finally making it official,” Jack says, tapping his bottle of beer against Cas’ at dinner. </p><p>“I suppose,” Cas says, smiling softly as he draws a spiral over Dean’s kneecap under the table. </p><p>“I meant, you’re already spiritually united, so marriage is a human formality. Not that that diminishes its significance in any way!”</p><p>“Uh, excuse me?” Dean cuts in, feeling like he’s missing something. Cas’ touch, in any capacity, is distracting. </p><p>“Oh, I was referring to the material claim Cas has on your physical and metaphysical form. The two of you have essentially been married for quite some time. A belated congratulations to you both!”</p><p>“The fuck is he talking about?” Dean says, turning on Cas. </p><p>“Nothing of import,” Cas answers, blatantly avoiding his eyes.</p><p>“Actually,” Jack says, leaning across the table. “I’d say that the imprint of Cas’ grace on every segment of your DNA is of quite significant import.”</p><p>“<em> What </em> -”</p><p>“Later, Dean,” Cas murmurs in his ear. Dean can’t help the Pavlovian shudder that runs down his spine at the proximity of Cas’ voice. He nods. </p><p>“So are we throwing a wedding?” Sam asks. “The guest list might be small, and more than a little unconventional. I assume you don’t want to invite the surviving Campbells, but we could call Jody and Donna. Put something together for you guys.”</p><p>Dean pictures it, the two of them in their best fake-FBI suits, standing in front of the nine or so people they like who are still alive. Promising to honor and love each other for the rest of their days. Who needs that? Except maybe...he needs that. </p><p>“Nah, we don’t have to,” he says, picking at the wrapper on his bottle. “Weddings are stupid, anyway.”</p><p>“I don’t think weddings are stupid,” Cas counters, hand stilling on Dean’s knee. “Not all of them, anyway. I'll admit that Katy Perry and Russell Brand's nuptials left something to be desired. Too many camels, perhaps.”</p><p>"Everyone knows camels are the least romantic of the ungulates," Jack chimes in. "Maybe that's why the marriage ultimately failed."</p><p>"Pretty sure there were other reasons," Sam says, haughtily. Dean shoots him a look. "What? The dentist's waiting room had People magazine."</p><p>"You went to the <em> dentist? </em>Back in 2012?" </p><p>"Didn't you?" Sam shoots back, conveniently forgetting that Dean was in purgatory that year. Unless, was that 2011? 2010? His personal relationship with linear time is ill-defined, at best. </p><p>“So, a wedding,” Cas said, turning Dean’s hand over where it’s clenched against his thigh and lacing their fingers together. </p><p>“Will there be a cake decorated with a motif from the most recent Disney smash hit? I hear Frozen II was a triumph. Balloons? A bounce house?” Jack asks, eyes wide.</p><p>“You’re thinking of a birthday party. For a six year old,” Dean says. Most honestly, a bounce house sounds kind of fun, but he keeps that to himself. They’re probably not weight-rated to support four fully grown men anyway. “But cake, definitely.”</p><p>“Or pie,” Cas suggests, squeezing his hand. “Every kind.”</p><p>“Oh my god,” Dean says, low and a little breathless. “I can’t believe I get to marry you.”</p><p>***</p><p>“Every segment of my DNA, huh?” Dean murmurs into the valley of Cas’ hip, alone in their room at last. </p><p>“That’s a slight - <em> god, </em>Dean - exaggeration,” Cas gasps, fingers clenched in Dean’s hair as Dean works an unrushed trail of kisses across his stomach, Cas’ cock brushing against the side of his face. </p><p>“Oh yeah?” </p><p>“Well, a full 23% of your genes are shared with those present in yeast, so I wasn’t especially focused on those.”</p><p>Dean rests his chin on Cas’ thigh, Cas’ cock twitching an inch from his mouth. “Wait, mine in particular? Or the human genome in general?”</p><p>“Don’t worry, you are no more akin to a single-celled microorganism than the average person. Can you - go back to...”</p><p>“What, this?” Dean says, sucking a slow kiss into the thin skin at the crease of Cas’ thigh.</p><p>“You’re unkind. A menace. I should - I should...” Cas trails off as Dean blatantly shows off, dragging his tongue up the side of Cas’ dick before sinking down on it in one wet slide. “<em> Fuuuuuck." </em></p><p>Dean pulls off, licks his lips. "That's the idea. But not yet."</p><p>"Oh, then, let me just -" Cas pets at his hair as Dean hollows his cheeks and tries to remember to breathe in between letting Cas’ cock bump against the back of his throat. "Should I roll over, or should you? That feels so <em> good </em>, what are you -”</p><p>Dean would grin at the novelty of driving an angel to incoherence, but his mouth is a little preoccupied. What’s that saying - ten thousand hours of practice makes anyone an expert. He’s not there yet, but he’s been reading Cas for years. Sex is just a different dialect of the same language. </p><p>He sucks Cas in as far as he can while still able to breathe and stays there. He could live in this spot. Dean feels goddamn holy as Cas runs his fingers through Dean’s hair, behind his ears, smoothing over his shoulders. </p><p>"Dean, you have to -" Cas rocks up and back, fucking into Dean's mouth just a little until Dean grips his hips with both hands, holding him down. Dean takes in more of Cas’ cock each time he sinks down, which Cas seems to appreciate.</p><p>“So good at this, so good for me. I could keep you here, stop time and just do this forever, how does that sound?”</p><p>Dean shudders, hums as he swirls his tongue an extra time or three on the next upstroke. </p><p>“You’d like that, I know you would. You would be perfectly content.” Cas’ fingers brush over his jaw, thumbing at the edge of his mouth. “I would see to all of your needs. You would want for nothing.”</p><p>Dean wonders if there were any versions of his death in Billie’s library where his heart stopped beating because Cas was too hot. Probably more than one. </p><p>***</p><p>The next morning, Dean gets up early to run some errands while Cas sleeps in. It feels vaguely sacreligious, leaving Cas when he’s all laid out in their bed, the long line of his naked back on display.  </p><p>"What's that? Sam asks, the second Dean sets his purchases down on the war room table. </p><p>Dean cocks his head to the side. "Uh, you alright? What's it look like? It's a plant, Sammy. Clearly, I gotta tell Jack to go easier on you when you guys spar."</p><p>"I see that. I meant <em> why </em> do you have a houseplant?" Sam says, and the fucker is smiling in that way Dean particularly hates. </p><p>"Air quality, aesthetics, I don't know. None of your business. Anyway, I was thinking I could put Gerald in the kitchen -"</p><p>"Who's Gerald? Wait - you named it?"</p><p>"Well, sure. It’s alive, it gets a name. Shut up."</p><p>"It's a plant. We live <em> underground," </em>Sam says, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed behind his head like he's the genius who figured out the meaning of the universe and not an asshat little brother who doesn't know shit about gardening. </p><p>"Hey, the little stick tag thing clearly says that Pothos plants are well-suited to low light conditions," Dean says, chucking the dirt-covered tag in Sam's direction for added emphasis. </p><p>Sam swats it away. "Underground, Dean. That's not low-light - that's no light. <em> Under </em>ground."</p><p>Dean deflates, eyeing the plant, which to be honest, already looks a little droopy. </p><p>“I just - Cas said he wants a window.”</p><p>“I’m not following.” Sam has the mercy to look confused rather than worried for Dean’s sanity.</p><p>“I can’t give him a window here. The digging alone, plus I’m not sure the wards would let me? So. A plant.”</p><p>“Huh.” Sam's eyebrows are all pulled together like Dean is a particularly poorly translated summoning spell.</p><p>“I knew it, this one sucks." Dean swats at a lump vine and immediately feels guilty for it. "I should’ve driven to the fancy greenhouse in Beloit."</p><p>"Not what I meant. The plant is fine. He'll love it, I'm sure. Maybe we can get one of those fancy grow-light things."</p><p>"It’s a shitty substitute for a window, but what am I supposed to do?”</p><p>“Actually, there's something I've been meaning to show you that might help.” Sam says, turning his laptop around to show Dean his screen. </p><p>Dean scans the page quickly. “Oh. Yeah, that would do it.”</p><p>***</p><p>Turns out, they know more people than Dean thought. Summer has given way to fall, and there’s a crowd of maybe sixty guests milling about on the bunker’s roof, sipping on cocktails and bonding over shit like preferred exorcisms and the relative merits of ceramic versus tungsten blades for offing crocottas. Dean tries to get close enough to Kaia and Garth to eavesdrop on their conversation, but all he hears is something about cheesecake and the psychic energy of lunar rocks. </p><p>It’s amazing what some twinkle lights can do for a place. Just last week, he and Cas had been on their hands and knees up here, harvesting the last of the butternut squash and greens. Since then, the rooftop has been transformed through the work of one nephilim, one former angel, two mere mortals, and a motley crew of assorted friends who had descended on the bunker the second they received the wedding invite. </p><p>It’s then that he sees Cas across the roof. He’s talking to Claire, his head bent low. She’s almost unrecognizable in a long, pink dress with honest-to-god flowers in her hair. Dean hasn’t seen her in anything but flannel since she was...shit, eleven years old? </p><p>“What’re you smiling at?” Donna says, appearing at his elbow. “I can guess a few reasons, starting with the way your husband’s ass looks in that suit.”</p><p>“Ms. Hanscum-Mills, you forget yourself,” Dean chides, nudging her. She looks damn good, like always. “Speaking of hot spouses, where’s your wife?”</p><p>Donna grins, dimples flashing. “Just over by the bar yakking it up with Cesar and Jesse. She wants to take me horseback riding, and their ranch is only a day’s drive from here.”</p><p>“Sounds romantic.” Jody would look sexy as hell on a horse, it’s true. So would Cas. Add that to the honeymoon to-do list.</p><p>“Speaking of, that was some ceremony. You boys, all you’ve been through, and then to finally be here, getting <em> married </em>...oh golly, here I go.” She blots at her eyes, and Dean offers her a handkerchief from his jacket pocket. </p><p>It’s his second of the evening. Sam didn’t even make it through ‘We are gathered together today’ before the first tear broke free. Dean knew he shouldn’t have asked him to officiate, but no one else was qualified. No one knew the way he and Cas had fought for each other, fought <em> with </em> each other over the last decade, across universes and dimensions, through wars and endless crises in order to catch a rare moment of peace. Those moments are getting less rare these days. </p><p>Dean opens his arms wide to hug Donna, and she squeezes him back so hard his feet nearly leave the ground. When he looks back out across the roof, he sees that Claire is gone and Cas is talking to someone else, a woman he doesn't recognize. He makes his way closer, weaving amongst the ever-drunker guests that squeeze his arm or shout congratulations in his ear as he passes. He notes how the mystery woman is wearing a brilliant green dress that sort of <em> floats </em> behind her, just off the floor. She's got gorgeous dark hair architecturally piled on top of her head in elaborate twists and braids. If this was a bar in 2010 rather than his wedding in 2020, he'd be hitting on her already, even though he can tell from twenty feet away that she's wildly out of his league. </p><p>Dean watches the woman cup Cas' face in both of her hands, and from this angle, he can see the way Cas' eyes have gone wide. Dean would kill to know what she’s saying to him. He quietly steps closer until Cas’ gaze meets his over the woman’s shoulder. </p><p>“And <em> this </em>is Dean Winchester,” Cas says to her, and Dean feels his ears go pink at the pride in Cas’ voice. </p><p>The woman turns to face him, her expression warm. </p><p>“I know who you are,” she says, smiling. “You’re the one who saved us all.”</p><p>“Oh, uh - no, that was definitely... a team effort,” Dean says, looking at Cas. </p><p>“A good answer. Thank you, both of you. For all you have done for this world, and for my garden.”</p><p>She steps close to him, close enough that Dean can see the flecks of gold in her deep brown eyes before she takes one of his hands in both of hers. </p><p>“You have paid a high price in this life, Dean Winchester,” she says quietly. “I give you my blessing, and my protection, now and for the rest of your days.”</p><p>He blinks, lost for words. Then he feels Cas’ steady hand on the small of his back. </p><p>“We are very grateful, goddess,” Cas says. </p><p>“Now, as for that paper you carry in your pocket.” the goddess says to Dean. “I consent to that as well.”</p><p>Cas looks at him questioningly. Dean shakes his head and mouths back ‘<em> later. </em>’</p><p>The goddess releases his hand, and she and Cas exchange a small bow before she turns and meanders toward the stairs and out of sight. </p><p>***</p><p>The dancing goes on past midnight. Dean could sleep here, his head tucked against Cas’ neck as they slowly sway, surrounded by all their friends and found-family. </p><p>“Is it ‘later’ yet?” Cas murmurs in his ear, his palm warm against Dean’s side through the thin layer of Dean’s dress shirt, his jacket long-abandoned. Dean shivers. He could blame it on the chill in the October air, but it’s just Cas’ effect on him. </p><p>Dean shakes his head, kissing the corner of Cas’ jaw and pulling him even closer. </p><p>“Soon.”</p><p>The guests slowly drift off, until it’s just Sam, Jack, Jody, Donna, and the girls. They herd Cas and him into the Impala, Cas sliding in behind the steering wheel. Dean doesn’t have the will to protest, not when the cool glass of the passenger side window feels so excellent against his face when he leans against it. </p><p>“So, the motel in Smith Center, right?” Cas asks. </p><p>“Mm, nope,” Dean answers, letting his heavy head loll onto Cas’ shoulder. “Got us a closer place. Just turn left, and go about a mile.”</p><p>“What -”</p><p>“You’ll see.”</p><p>A couple minutes later, Cas is pulling the car into the driveway of the garden house. <em> Their </em> house, though Cas doesn’t know that yet. </p><p>Dean digs in his pocket, and hands Cas a key. It’s heavy, tarnished brass to match the lock it fits. </p><p>“Where did this come from?” Cas asks, turning the key over in his palm. </p><p>“Got it two weeks ago when I bought us the place,” Dean says. "Sam helped."</p><p>“When you - <em> Dean </em> .” Cas takes his face in his hands, kissing him softly. “That’s what the goddess meant. Her claim on the land goes deeper than a title recorded at the county courthouse, so the fact that she willingly gave her consent... this is <em> ours </em>. Really ours.”</p><p>“For the rest of our days,” Dean says with a yawn. “And most importantly right now, our nights. I have it on good authority that there’s a memory foam mattress in there calling our names.”</p><p>Cas laughs, and kisses him again. Again and again, from the car to the porch to the bedroom with the big window overlooking the backyard, kissing him until he falls asleep. He’ll be kissing him for years and years, forever.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>